Scarf
by Haprilona
Summary: In the short time they had together, they gave each other strength to overcome the many obstacles life had in store for them.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Scarf  
Chapter's genre: Friendship  
Summary: He found himself oddly content between the past and upcoming storm.

 **Chapter 1**

A chill breeze penetrated Fíli's oversized tunic – shirt really – that Bard and his family had provided for him. The younger daughter of Bard had given him two shirts; a brown one with short sleeves that still managed to reach his elbows and a grey one with long sleeves that hung limply past his fingertips. He had been given a strip of red cloth to use as a belt to have the loose clothing hug closer to his stocky figure as well as keep the sleeves tied to his wrists. He had seen the elder daughter take what he presumed to be a dress that both sisters had long since outgrown and rip it into long strips before offering one to each member of the Company.

The collars of his shirts were so wide they exposed bare skin on his shoulders which made the young prince highly self-conscious. No respectful dwarf would succumb to one or two layers of clothing, for both practical and aesthetic reasons. Fíli could already feel his naturally cool skin freeze over in the barely noticeable, but still biting wind. He really missed his many layers of shirts and undershirts as well as his beloved travelling coat and the warm warg fur. Nonetheless he was grateful for the few obviously well-worn articles of cloth that the poor family was able offer him.

Water sloshed merrily against wooden pillars that supported the house of Bard, the sound not even nearly as deafening as the underground falls of Ered Luin that the young dwarf prince was accustomed to. He was certain the Beard Falls were still a tolerable temperature for a swim. Same couldn't be said for Long Lake; merely looking at the floating ice made him shiver in discomfort. His hand reached for the pipe hidden between the folds of his makeshift belt. He had managed to keep it on his person through the forced stay at the Woodland Realm. Same couldn't be said for his priced weapons. Unfortunately Fíli hadn't had the chance to restock his pipe-weed supply since passing through the town of Bree, but he had just enough for one last smoke. Southlinch, he recalled the pipe-weed to be called. He lit his pipe with numb fingers and took a greedy inhale of the sweet smelling smoke. Settling for a more comfortable position against the railing, he exhaled slowly a cloud of smoke and let his eyes close in content.

Muffled sounds could be heard in the wooden house of his hosts. Bofur and Tauriel were conversing in hushed tones as not to disturb the still recovering raven haired prince. Óin was lightly snoring, probably passed out in front of the fireplace. The poor healer hadn't managed to get a wink of rest between trying to create a suitable medicine for the raving and hallucinating Kíli and fighting off invading orcs. Tonight he would enjoy few hours of well-deserved rest; Fíli would make sure of it.

A soft, slightly off-tune humming carried over from one of the holes on the wall created by the recent orc skirmish. Another, considerably younger voice joined the humming. The melody was upbeat, like a song the men of Bree would sing with a pint of ale in their hands at the famous Prancing Pony. Still with his eyes closed, Fíli felt his foot tap to the beat as he imagined a merry group of dwarves and men alike celebrating in a cozy tavern by the warmth of a hearth. All too soon the song ended and he was snapped out of the pleasant daydream back to the cold and damp of Esgaroth. There was a ruffle of blankets followed by a faint "sleep well, little Tilly" and a candle was blown out by the window next to where the beds were. Before the fair haired dwarf could bemoan the lack of music, the humming continued. This time it seemed less merry and almost aimless. As if the person behind the voice couldn't quite decide what to do with the song, so she settled for any notes that passed her lips. Fíli inhaled and exhaled the smoke slowly and strained his ears. He could barely make out a quiet clack of something small and wooden hitting together.

He was almost done with his smoke when the clacking and humming ceased. He could hear light footsteps closing in and opened his eyes in time to see the oaken door creak open. Out came the elder daughter of Bard, holding a folded cloth between her small bony hands.

"May I join you, Master Dwarf?" she asked pleasantly. The crown prince gave a subtle nod in confirmation and politely emptied his pipe before replacing it in his belt. He watched her with mild curiosity from the corner of his eye as she fumbled with the faded blue cloth.

"I wanted to thank you for what you did back there", she began. Fíli turned to fully face her and furrowed his brows in confusion. "It was very brave of you, reckless even, to fight the orcs unarmed", she elaborated.

"Least I can do after you helped us", he replied easily as he studied her youthful face. A small warm smile rose to her usually serious face. It reminded him of his mother's nostalgic smile when she told him and Kíli stories of their father; a smile originating from happier times that had survived through the hardships of life.

Strange how such a small detail took his thoughts back to the halls of the Blue Mountains, his home. Surely there was nothing else that this petite woman had in common with the finely shaped dames of his race. She could hardly be considered attractive by his people's standards. Fíli was quite sure he could snap her in two like a twig, for her body was frail; not graceful and agile like the Captain of the Guard glued to his brother's side, but underweight and weak from poverty. And while some might be able to look past the obvious lack of beard, she didn't have anything on the dwarrowdams with her formless body shape. The clothes she wore positively engulfed her tiny frame and hid any and all traits that would separate her from, say, Bain. All the same, Fíli felt there was something inviting about the wide kind eyes that peered at him so openly without restraints.

He snapped out of his musings when the small hands of his present company presented the cloth she had been hugging to her chest previously.

"I know it isn't much", she trailed off as she unfolded the cloth for him to see. It was a faded blue scarf. Unlike rest of the clothing he wore, the scarf was clearly unused and newly made. Sigrid hesitantly wrapped it around his neck before letting her hands fall to her sides and fiddled the ends of her bodice. His hands reached up to try the texture between chilly fingers. It was nothing like the sturdy leathers and soft wools he was accustomed to. But he didn't mind the roughness of the scarf as warmth slowly spread across his previously bare neck.

"You made this… for me?" She nodded and bit her lower lip and let her gaze fall past his short stature to demurely stare at their feet. He stepped closer and studied her flustered face in silence. He could barely make out the freckles that dusted her upper cheeks. _So different from Bombur's_ , he thought.

Sigrid shifted her weight uncomfortably, her small hands clenching and unclenching. Growing slightly irritated by her obvious nervousness, the prince took her calloused hands between his bigger ones and held them. Her eyes shot up to his in surprise as his thumb caressed the back of her hand.

"It is warm, thank you."

Her bony hands were warm against his strong warrior's hands and he idly pondered if all children of men were as hot-blooded. A common misconception was that dwarves were as hot-blooded as they were hot tempered, but their blood was cool which required multiple layers of clothing to keep warm even during the warmer seasons. Truly, Fíli had to wonder what Illúvatar had fashioned the men after when creating them, for they were small and frail. Even Bilbo who was Tilda's height seemed to have more meat around his bones than the willowy figure of Sigrid. Yet there was hidden strength in the race of men, not as obvious as the grace of elves or the raw strength of dwarves. But it was there, and whatever it was, it was easier to see than the strength of hobbits Fíli had had the chance to witness during their long trek. Who would've thought someone so small and timid would prove to be an invaluable ally in the grand scheme of things.

He released Sigrid's hands and returned to leaning against the railing. Thinking about Bilbo was a sure way to remind himself of the quest and the rest of the Company that now climbed up the mountain. His gaze traveled to the horizon where the Lonely Mountain stood tall and proud. He had wanted to be there with his kin, to be by his uncle's side and witness the great halls of his forefathers. But as much as his place was beside his uncle and King, it was even more so beside his injured brother.

The atmosphere was nearly tranquil, but Fíli knew better than to let it fool him into a false sense of security. It was the calm after the storm. _Or before the next storm_ , he thought grimly. There still remained the very real fear of a live dragon residing deep beneath the mountain. Should the worst come to pass, he would have to do everything in his power to get Bard's family as well as his remaining companions to safety. The mere thought of the wooden city above the lake surface being scorched by dragon fire made his insides churn uncomfortably.

 _No. It won't come to that. Smaug has not been seen in decades_ , he reminded himself firmly and willed the dark thoughts to fade away. He had spent enough time worrying for his brother. He would take this one day at a time.

Distant voices of patrolling guards roused the unlikely couple from their musings.

"It's late. Come inside", Sigrid suggested as she stood up and smoothened the wrinkles off her skirts. Silently the woman and the dwarf entered the destroyed home and settled next to the sleeping Óin. Even with all the recent not-so-pleasant happenings, Fíli found himself oddly content sitting next to the fire, with the faintest brush of Sigrid's side against his.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Scarf  
Chapter's genre: Hurt/comfort  
Summary: Fíli is torn between helping the lakesmen and following his kin to find out their fate.

 **Chapter 2**

When the time to leave the remains of Lake-town and its citizen was upon the leftovers of Thorin's Company, Fíli felt his heart grow heavy. He believed he was just as guilty for the devastation the lakesmen faced as were the dwarves who had awakened the fire breathing beast. The only consolation on his guilty conscience was that he had managed to keep Bard's daughters and his three companions safe with the aid of Tauriel. Watching the fiery haired elf take charge had stung his dwarven pride, but he had let his grudge against elves take a backseat and concentrate on rowing and getting out of the burning town alive.

He had failed to save one of Bard's children, however. The bowman's only son, Bain, had jumped off the boat after spotting his father up in a burning tower shooting arrows at the dragon's impenetrable hide. Fíli had tried to grab the lanky boy's arm and pull him back to safety, but the lad was nimbler than his appearance suggested.

" _Come back! Wait!_ " he called after him, panic evident in his voice. Bain didn't take heed of him and continued his mad dash across the wooden walkways. Little Tilda cried after her brother and clung to Sigrid.

Fíli had been ready to stand up and chase after the reckless boy, but was stopped by Tauriel's stern tone. " _Leave him. We cannot go back._ " It was the last he saw of Bard's son.

As he watched the drenched men crawl to the shores of Long Lake and listened to the hysterical cries of women and children, he felt obligated to stay and help. He knew what it was like to live on the road and to be a stranger in his own home. The Blue Mountains were his home, but it was not where he belonged.

However he had sworn loyalty to his uncle and kin. Their fate weighted heavily on his mind and he knew he had to leave and see with his own eyes what had become of the nine dwarves and a hobbit. Voicing his concerns to Bofur and Óin, the two began to gather whatever small provisions they had and packed them on the boat. He could see Kíli's attention was completely elsewhere and decided to let his younger brother have a chance to thank the unusual elf for her generous help.

He was about to help the two elder dwarves push the boat back to the water when he caught a glimpse of something familiar in the sea of injured and freezing men; brown mop of tangled hair, now darkened by water and ash, coming loose from a messy braid.

"Fíli!" he winced when her shrill shout rose above the screams and cries. Sigrid was frantically turning her head, scouring the landscape for his blonde locks and short stature. He wouldn't be able to leave her in such a state. Sighing, he turned to the two dwarves. "Just a moment", he said and strode to the distressed lass, mindful of the bodies that littered the shore. Little Tilda clutched her sister's hand and joined in shouting his name. In the back of his mind he couldn't help but wonder how long they could keep that up before their voices turned hoarse from overuse.

"Sigrid, Tilda. I'm here", he called as he got closer. Sigrid instantly turned like a predator that had spotted its prey and ran to him in record time. Tilda couldn't keep up, so she let go of her sister's hand and followed at her on pace. Fíli hardly had time to say more as Sigrid collapsed to her knees and fiercely hugged him.

It wasn't anything like he had ever experienced before. Not to say Fíli hadn't had his share of hugs. On the contrary he took every chance he got to show his affection to his younger brother and to greet his mother by enveloping her in a gentle embrace. He was known to give friendly side hugs and pats on the back to even mere acquaintances. But the desperate vice-like-grip her skinny arms held him in was nothing like the comfortable hugs he shared with his friends and family.

Frowning, he contemplated whether to pry her arms off him before he suffocated or pat her affectionately on the head. Such thoughts fled his mind when he felt her body tremble against his uncontrollably. Maybe the cold had finally gotten to her. Silly lass was only wearing a thin coat over her usual garments – as was little Tilda who watched them teary-eyed from a short distance. _That couldn't be it_ , he mused, for she was still as warm as ever underneath his arms. When had his arms wrapped around her slim frame? It didn't matter, he decided, as it seemed to help her calm down enough to loosen her grip and pull back to look him in the eye.

"I can't find Da or Bain", she whispered. "I was afraid you would leave us." She buried her nose in his damp locks, not voicing the obvious fear of being left alone with her sister. Fíli sighed and brushed his dry lips to her warm brow.

"Not yet", his voice was a low rumble as he stroked Sigrid's back. It was almost improper as his hand felt the unnaturally sharp bones of her shoulder blades and spine through her coat. _Men and their lack of proper clothing_ , he huffed, but allowed himself to indulge in this strange sensation. She didn't seem to mind in the slightest, in fact, she appeared almost soothed by it. Once her trembling had completely subsided, he dared to continue to say the unavoidable. "But we are leaving very soon for Erebor. We have to see if anyone is still alive."

Her breath tickled the right side of his face as she nodded in understanding. Carefully pulling apart, he took her small hands in his and willed what he hoped to be a reassuring smile on his face. Her chapped lips trembled and her nostrils flared as she attempted to keep calm. Her kind grey eyes shone with unshed tears that reminded Fíli of an heirloom of Durin's House; a precious ring made of mithril. He had seen it briefly on the finger of his grandfather Thráin before the dwarves had marched to retake Khazad-dûm. Fíli had been only a small boy back then, Kíli even smaller, sleeping in a cradle while Fíli witnessed their parents embrace for the last time.

"You are strong, you and your people. You will make it through", he assured and steadily held her gaze. He was pleased to note that she managed to keep the tears from falling. She had to be strong, for her family.

"Take care of Kíli", she said quietly, voice thick with emotion.

"And you of Tilda." He didn't have the heart to include Bain or Bard and give the poor lass false hope. She had had enough dreams crushed within the nychthemeron.

Sigrid managed a watery smile as he lifted his hand to tug a wayward strand of hair behind her small ear. "This is not a farewell", she said firmly, lifting her chin in determination and ready to challenge him if he dared to disagree.

"No", agreed the fair haired prince and gently head-butted her. "We will meet again", he promised. Sigrid gave his cool hand a final squeeze before standing up and joining Tilda to search for their father and brother. The sudden absence of warmth in his hands left him slightly chilled.

Fíli found himself fingering the scarf she had knitted for him the day before. It was rough and warm like her work-worn hands. He cast a final glance in her direction before walking back to the two waiting dwarves. He noted Kíli had yet to return from the elf's side, but he suspected he wouldn't take much longer to bid farewell to her.

Perhaps these strange interracial attachments did indeed run in the family, looking back to how fond the two brothers and their uncle had grown of their hobbit companion. Or mayhap he and Kíli had merely inherited their mother's big heart and compassion that overlooked minor details such as race.

The prince discarded his musings and turned to push the boat along with Óin and Bofur. It seemed to be stuck on the bank as if taunting him to change his mind and turn back. Huffing in irritation, he turned to glance back at his brother who seemed to be rooted on spot not unlike the trees his elf-companion lived amongst.

"Kíli! Come on, we're leaving."


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Scarf  
Chapter's genre: Angst  
Summary: Fíli watches helplessly as his uncle falls further into madness.

 **Chapter 3**

" _Welcome, my sister-sons, to the kingdom of Erebor._ "

Fíli felt a chill run down his spine as he stared at his uncle's emotionless eyes. The ruby Thorin had thrown to his hands felt like it was on fire, unnaturally burning his very bones. He discreetly dropped it behind his back while he and his companions tried to make sense of what they saw and heard.

When he had set off with the other twelve dwarves on this mad quest to reclaim their homeland, he had imagined it as an exciting adventure and as a chance to prove himself to his King. At the journey's end lied the halls of his forefathers and the honor and glory he had longed for ever since he heard the stories of how Thorin had gotten his moniker Oakenshield. But now as he gazed down at the glassy unseeing stare of his only father-figure in the world, he grew bitter at his youthful naivety.

He heard Balin speak of dragon sickness and how his great grandfather had succumbed to it. It became more obvious something was festering in his kind and just uncle's heart with every rash action made. History was repeating itself. It was obvious yet none dared to cross their King, so they remained faithful and spent every waking moment searching for the King's Jewel while Thorin raved on at his throne.

Then one day he saw fires light up the night sky as people of Lake-town took refuge in the ruins of Dale. Involuntarily Fíli's hand reached for the warm scarf wrapped around his neck. It was very likely that the daughters of Bard were among the poor, defenseless and most likely starving and freezing fishermen. He wondered if Bard and his son had survived the attack and if not, how Sigrid and Tilda were faring on their own. He said as much out loud to Bofur who shrugged helplessly. Fíli was ready to suggest going to visit them and offer them shelter within the ruined halls of their reclaimed kingdom when Thorin's commanding voice echoed from the halls. "To the gate, now!"

And then order came that they were to barricade themselves and close the entrance with stone.

"I want this fortress made safe by sunup! This mountain was hard-won; I will not see it taken again!"

Fíli felt as if he was building more than a wall between his kin and the men of Lake-town. He was separating himself from those he had sworn to protect and help rebuild after what he had brought onto them. What was honor if he couldn't so much as see to that he kept his word?

Once the wall was built, he volunteered to take the first watch. As he patrolled on the wall his eyes searched anxiously for any familiar silhouette on the road between Dale and Erebor. He held onto a foolish hope that perhaps the lass with a body of a sapling and eyes of mithril would come and warm his numbing heart with a kind smile on her youthful face. He knew he was not making the situation any better by holding onto something as fleeting as a short-lived friendship formed in extreme situations. Why _would_ she come in the middle of the night to visit him? The lack of sleep and the endless searching through mountains of cursed gold was clearly turning him unreasonable. Soon _he_ would be the one raving like a lunatic by his uncle's side. Fíli chuckled humorlessly.

Leaning against the makeshift railing, he took out his pipe. He had ran out of pipe-weed the night Smaug the Golden had destroyed Lake-town. Nevertheless Fíli took comfort in the feel of his pipe between his dry lips while his hand stroked the ends of his faded blue scarf. He closed his eyes and willed himself to hear the silly upbeat song Sigrid and Tilda had hummed together that night. He dared not to open his eyes for he wasn't ready to face reality; he wanted to relive the small heartwarming moments with the bargeman's daughter over and over.

"You're not sleeping on duty, are you, lad?" Dwalin came to relieve him from watch. The crown prince grunted in response and put his pipe away. "Get some rest, tomorrow will be a trying day." Fíli placed his hand on the elder dwarf's shoulder in acknowledgement, but did not reply. They both knew what the other one was thinking. It had been a trying week and it would continue to be so as long as Thorin remained under the influence of the cursed gold.

The fair haired prince cast a final glance over the wall before turning to walk down the stairs. Sigrid would not come and he could not leave without his King's consent. All he could do was rest and see what the coming day would bring. A confrontation with the men was unavoidable, that much he knew for certain. Fíli could only hope that it would not turn sour and that his uncle would come to his senses and agree to help the desperate lakesmen.

He didn't fear taking arms against superior numbers. But he couldn't live with himself for hurting the very people whose lives he had already destroyed and who he had failed to help in their greatest time of need. The people – the family – who had taken him in when his brother was on death's door. Would he repair their kindness with a quick death?

The mental image of him raising his double swords at the helpless hunched form of Sigrid burned behind his eyes. Cursing silently, he gritted his teeth and clenched his hands into fists. As much as he wanted to throw the rubble at his feet or strike his axe against a stone wall, he had to keep himself in control. He was afraid once he started he wouldn't be able to stop and sooner or later he would join his uncle in his sickness.

If it ever came to that, dwarves and men battling, he would have to try and slip unnoticed in the chaos of flying swords and find the daughters of Bard and take them to safety. Perhaps he could persuade Bilbo to do it in his stead. The hobbit had a curious skill in moving unnoticed and being in the right place in the right time. He doubted the men would harm him as he was a neutral participant in the upcoming conflict.

Fíli reached the destroyed chamber that they had hastily tried to repair. They had found suitable materials to make few decent beds for them to sleep in. As travel and battle hardened as they were, they still preferred to sleep above the ground given the chance. All of them were sleeping in this chamber, except for Thorin. The King Under the Mountain was nowhere to be seen. He was most likely walking aimlessly among the gold. Fíli doubted his uncle had slept much since his arrival. None of them had, but he even less.

Soft snoring echoed in the bare floored chamber. Fíli opened the braids in his hair and changed for the night in the clothes he had received from little Tilda. The scarf remained draped across his shoulders; he had yet to take it off since receiving it. If he concentrated hard enough, he swore he could feel the calloused warm hands of Sigrid wrapping around his neck and holding him in a comforting embrace. So unlike the real one he had received before leaving her and Tilda to cry out for their Da. Yet he was certain if they both lived through these uncertain times, he would get the chance to experience a less aggressive show of affection from the lanky lass.

He settled on the bed and let the thoughts of a freckle-faced coy lass lull him into fitful sleep.

* * *

The next day elves of Mirkwood arrived to fortify the encampment of men. Their golden armor shone brightly in the morning sun. The sight was not comforting in the least. Fíli could see all hopes for a truce between the two races come crashing down with the meddling of their hated enemy. Thorin would not treat with the men of Lake-town as long as Thranduil was outside the borders of his Woodland Realm.

There was a silver lining even in such a hopeless situation as this, however. Bard had appeared, as if from the dead. He was now revered as the King of Esgaroth. Fíli could rest easy knowing that he and Bain would look after Sigrid and Tilda. He wouldn't have to lose his uncle's trust by leaving his side to retrieve two lasses from their enemy. It was a selfish thought, but even in his madness Fíli still cherished his uncle's trust and respect above all.

"Begone, 'ere our arrows fly!"

* * *

 _Edit 30/10/15: Corrected the highly embarrassing typo of "peep-wide" to "pipe-weed". XD That's what you get for writing past midnight, I guess._


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Scarf  
Chapter's genre: Tragedy  
Summary: Sigrid pays Fíli a final visit.

 **Chapter 4**

Sigrid found him lined up next to the other fallen dwarven warriors. He wore heavy armor that covered him from head to toe. His lips were set in a thin grim line, but his brows were relaxed and his eyes closed peacefully. Her gaze travelled from his regal young face to a familiar scarf wrapped securely around his neck, barely showing underneath all the layers of armor and leather.

He had told her to be strong and keep a reassuring act for her younger siblings. They were fine, her family was safe. But the crown prince of Erebor lay dead at her feet next to the hundreds of nameless dwarves from Iron Hills. A tear slid down her cheek and fell on the prince's wheat colored hair.

Her head swam, her heart ached and finally her legs gave out and she collapsed next to Fíli's pale faced corpse. His companions had cleaned most of the blood and dirt, but Sigrid could still see occasional crimson spot staining his short beard, scarf and collar. She took his gloved hand in hers and kissed his knuckles, tears freely streaming down her face without end in sight.

Bofur accompanied by Dwalin had sought her after the battle and brought news of the death of Fíli and Kíli. They had told her that the princes had fought valiantly beside their King. Fíli had sacrificed himself selflessly to protect his uncle from the enemy's arrows. It sounded so similar to what had happened at her house during the orc raid. He had covered her with nothing but his own body to shield her from the orcs and defended her with his bare fists. Ever the older brother, ever the unsung hero. She would make sure he wouldn't be forgotten and that his deeds would live on for generations.

Óin had also joined them and revealed to her that Fíli had never taken off the faded blue scarf for some curious reason. When asked about it, the young prince had only smiled faintly and said someone special had given it to him. Sigrid had felt her cheeks flush and looked away in embarrassment. They had left shortly after that to carry Thorin's body to the burial grounds.

Sigrid closed her eyes, willing the tears to subside. He wouldn't have wanted her to be like this. She let go of his hand and unsteadily stood up.

"When you said we'd meet again I had hoped you would at least have the decency to greet me with eyes open", her voice was thick with emotion that threatened to resurface. She bowed respectfully to both fair and raven haired princes and turned away before she would break down again. She took her leave while knowing she was leaving a part of herself behind.

 _You are strong_ , she heard his comforting voice say. She held her head high and joined the men to watch the dwarves take the princes' corpses to the burial grounds. They were not allowed inside the mountain to pay their respect to the royal family; the tensions were still too high. She was quite upset with this and asked her Da if there was nothing they could do to show their respect. A slow smile rose to Bard's face as an idea formed in his mind.

The men and women of Dale, as they were now known, stood by the walls of the ruined city while the horns of Dale were blown in a melancholy tune in honor for the fallen Mountain King. The people stood in silence, gazing at the setting sun. Men took off their hats in respect. Sigrid clutched to her father's arm as she looked to the entrance of Erebor.

Life would go on. They would rebuild the city of Dale and flourish. After all the death and destruction at the hands of Smaug and the orcs, the race of men would endure and grow stronger from the hardships than ever before. They would know peace.

And that was all she could ask for. For that was what Fíli would have wanted.

* * *

 _A/N: Hope you guys liked it. Feel free to leave criticism or point out typos/grammar errors etc. English is my second language and I have lot of trouble juggling between proper posh english and american english, so there might be some cases of 'humor' and 'humo ur'. As in, the same word written in two different ways within the story._


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